


you cut through all the noise

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asthma, Crying, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic, Statement withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26133349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: “I’m confused, I’m-I’m dizzy, I—”Jon breaks off with a sigh, feeling so endlessly out of breath that the next words come out in a rush.“I think I saw the police officer from Chicago again—in the station where I was talking to Rebecks.  I—”God, I can’t breathe.“I’m not—feeling well.”(written for day 3 of TMA hurt/comfort week on tumblr!)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Comments: 32
Kudos: 197





	you cut through all the noise

**Author's Note:**

> just a short one today! literally have so much to do but couldn't resist these prompts of course! please enjoy :)

“I’m confused, I’m-I’m dizzy, I—”

Jon breaks off with a sigh, feeling so endlessly out of breath that the next words come out in a rush.

“I think I saw the police officer from Chicago again—in the station where I was talking to Rebecks. I—”

_God, I can’t breathe._

“I’m not—feeling well.”

The tape clicks off on its own right as Jon starts up coughing again, harsh and painful, into his elbow. He’s been at it all day—the gasping, heaving breaths, the constantly dripping nose, throat on fire—all serving to make him properly miserable. Even the paracetamol he’d managed to find after a long struggle at the chemist hasn’t worked, and Jon is fairly certain his fever has only been climbing.

And, as is often the case, it makes him…upset.

It’s just that it’s so miserable here, roaming about a hospital looking for news of Gerard’s horrendous death, trying to find a decent cup of tea only to come up empty, endlessly searching through the aisles of the American “pharmacy” to find some _damn fever reducers_ , only to learn it’s called by a different name—

And there’s no one here with him. He is well and truly alone.

His chest aches. His very _soul_ aches.

_Damn it, I can’t breathe._

Stars begin to spatter across his vision as he reaches down to his bag, hands shaking so badly he can barely grab hold of his inhaler, dropping it several times before managing to set it on the hotel bed. 

_Spinning spinning spinning_

Squeezing his eyes shut against the endless whorl of colors around him, he pants into the stillness for a moment, until the wheezing of his own chest begins to scare him. Shaking the medicine weakly, he exhales as much as possible before drawing a deep breath—praying that it will work this time.

It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. It may have stopped his chest from wheezing for now, but—there’s still no room, no air, no one to—

_Martin._

Jon curses himself for the thought at once.

_No, he doesn’t…he doesn’t need…_

Running a hand through his overgrown hair draws up a memory, gentle and light, of warm hands pulling his hair up while he’d been ill, warm hands brushing against his own in the hall, warm hands checking his forehead for fever, supporting him when he’d fallen, even after everything—

His own hands still shaking, he picks up the phone and calls.

“J’n?”

Martin picks up after a few rings, voice low and slurred with sleep.

_Oh, shit—_

Jon stares wide-eyed at the clock, makes the time conversion in his head, and…it’s four in the morning in London.

“M-Martin I…I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t realize the time, I—”

“No no, it’s—” he breaks off to yawn for a moment. “It’s alright, what’s going on?”

_I shouldn’t have called._

“Really Martin, just—go back to sleep, I apologize—”

“Are you alright?”

The concern evident in his voice sends a ripple of guilt through Jon’s empty stomach.

“I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re fine, you don’t sound fine at all,” Martin says, and Jon can hear the rustle of fabric as he sits up in bed. “Are you ill?”

 _How do you know these things?_ Jon wants to ask, but refrains—instead swiping a hand across his brow.

“Jon?”

_Oh, right._

“Err—I don’t know, exactly. I’m um—heh—”

_Can’t breathe_

Another coughing fit bursts from him, and he holds the phone far away from his face to spare Martin’s ears. Even with the medicine, it’s somehow more ragged than before, every bit of his lungs on fire has he struggles to contain it. When he at last manages to settle it, he picks the phone back up, voice whittled down to nothing more than a haggard whisper.

“Sorry—” he sniffs, swiping a tissue to stem the renewed flow of his nose. “Sorry, I suppose I might be ill.”

“No kidding. You sound awful, Jon. Have you got your inhaler?”

_He remembers._

_…of course he does._

“I-I do, it’s just—” he sighs heavily, letting his forehead drop onto the palm of his hand. “It’s not really working.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean—it helps a little, but…not for long.”

“So it’s not asthma then?”

“I suppose not.”

They let the silence hang for a while, and Jon lets his eyes fall closed, not wanting to hang up the call, wanting to keep Martin’s presence with him somehow.

“What’s really wrong, Jon?”

And there it is again, Martin’s ability to read him even without seeing his face. Tears begin to sting, hot and relentless, behind his eyes, and he tells himself it’s from the fever, wants to tell Martin that’s all it is, but—

_I’ve got to be honest._

_He trusts me and I’ve got to be honest._

“I don’t know, Martin,” he whispers, sniffing back the congestion that’s rounded out the consonants of his name. “I don’t know, I just—I just wanted to talk to you.”

 _I miss you,_ he wants to say more than anything.

He knows he cannot, or he’ll actually start to cry, and that wouldn’t do to put him through that.

“Okay,” Martin says, keeping his tone light—but Jon can hear the concern behind it all the same. “Okay, that’s alright, Jon—I’m glad you called. What can I do to help you feel better?”

Jon can’t help but let out a quick laugh at this, a bit damp and gasping, as he swipes quickly at the tears now spilling from his eyes.

“Nothing, Martin,” he says, still smiling a bit. “Just…good of you to answer.”

“Jon, I—” he cuts himself off, sighing a bit shakily. “Jon, I’m worried, I—can I stay on the line with you a bit? I can—here, I can read you something, or-or we can talk, or—or we could just sit, it’s alright, just…just don’t hang up, alright?”

Jon can’t help but bury his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with choked-back sobs.

“Jon? Are you there?”

Sniffing quickly, Jon replies.

“I-I’m here, sorry, I—”

He sniffles again, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. 

“Thank you. I would—”

His pride nearly stops him from saying it, anything but to admit he needs help—

“I’d love it if you read to me.”

Though he cannot see his face, Jon is absolutely certain of the wide smile broadcasted all the way from London.

“Of course, Jon. Whatever you need.”

He allows the gentleness of Martin’s voice to carry him away with the tide, pulling his small boat away from the shore, and into the oceans of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! come find me on tumblr @celosiaa if you like :) have a great day!


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